


For the Raptures and Roses of Vice

by kyrilu



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gellert Grindelwald is not portrayed by Johnny Depp, Angst, Issues, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Mild Painplay, Mildly Dubious Consent, Past Relationship(s), Post-Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:59:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8891725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: "You remind me of him," Credence says.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ради роз и восторгов порока](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14009613) by [Kollega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kollega/pseuds/Kollega)



> I have literally zero regrets. This fic got away for me; I really did not expect to write nearly 4k of Credence/Dumbledore fic, holy hell.
> 
> Obviously, there's a lot of references to Credence/Grindelgraves and Dumbledore/Grindelwald in this fic.

The Obscurus is killing Credence Barebone.

It has been killing him slowly but surely his entire life, but it seems to have worsened ever since the boy revealed himself in New York. Newt Scamander had left Credence here, at Hogwarts, regretful and worried, promising he would return as soon as he dealt with a urgent complication regarding his Nundu.

 _I trust you can handle Credence, Professor,_ Newt said. _Your research and correspondence about Obscurials were very helpful to me back in Sudan_ (and here, there is a slight crack in his voice, a pain that Albus can wholly understand) _and I need you to monitor him and owl me if something goes wrong._ _Figure out how to stabilize him, if need be._

Winter break has started at Hogwarts, and most of the students are home for the hols. Albus is at a loss how to help this boy who wanders the Hogwarts grounds like a lost ghost, wearing Newt’s yellow-and-black Hufflepuff scarf and a pair of robes that doesn’t quite suit him.

Credence is, thankfully, not a danger to the remaining staff and students.

Instead, the Obscurus reduces him to a shaking heap. Albus finds Credence curled against windowsills in the Hogwarts towers, black mist tearing against his skin, and he does his best to urge him to rest in the infirmary every time.

 _This boy knew Gellert,_ Albus thinks.

Albus did not want his life to intersect with Gellert’s again, even if indirectly, even if it has to do with this poor young man who developed an Obscurus and needs help. He does not want to remember everything he lost--he does not want to remember his old temptations about power--and it is an utterly selfish train of thought that Albus loathes himself for it and does his utmost to shake it off.

Credence is nothing like Gellert, after all. Credence is withdrawn and quiet. He has barely spoken a single word to Albus. He takes books from the library, poring over yellowed pages about magic as if he can make up for all those years of schooling he missed. There is an air of unsteady wildness about him.

Albus falls into reading spirals of his own. Nearly every waking hour, he spends time reading and rereading what is known about Obscurials--how can this boy be saved? How can he be saved like Newt’s Obscurial in Sudan was not? How can he be saved like Ariana was not--?

And it does not help that memories of Gellert have been rising to the forefront of his mind and creeping into his dreams.

Albus tries to forget and catches himself thinking _Obliviate_ with no real magic behind it.

His smile-- _Obliviate._ His laugh-- _Obliviate._ The way his golden hair and blue eyes looked in the summer sun-- _Obliviate._ The way his accent grew thick as he spoke passionately about politics, the Hallows, dark magic, and Albus (how they were destined to rule together, lead together, but sometimes rough with fondness; Gellert kissing him and tasting the chocolate in his mouth: _you are an utter fool when it comes to your sweets, Albus, I wager you’d trade the Elder Wand for a kiss and a Liquorice Wand_ )-- _Obliviate, Obliviate--_

Twenty-seven years. It has been twenty-seven years.

* * *

Albus has his first real conversation with Credence Barebone in the library.

His research on solutions for Credence’s condition is still in progress. Albus is searching various fields of magic--arithmancy, potions, even divination, _anything_ \--and he stops by the library to assemble more books with a sweep of his wand.

Then he notices Credence sitting at one of the tables, watching him. There is a book out in front of him. Albus recognizes it; it is a basic guide on healing magic.

Albus suddenly recognizes that despite all the books that Credence has been reading, the boy has never attempted to perform magic himself.

With a wave of guilt, Albus realizes that he has consciously and purposefully been avoiding the boy. It is shockingly neglectful of him; he, Albus Dumbledore, a teacher and professor.

“Credence,” he says, “we can procure a wand for you.”

Credence blinks, looking startled that Albus is speaking to him. “A wand, sir?”

“There is a place called Diagon Alley in London, where there are many magical shops and stores,” Albus says. “It is customary for Hogwarts students to purchase their wand there before entering their first year. There are many other useful haunts in the Alley as well. I know of a rather excellent ice cream parlour where they serve the most delightful lemon sorbet.”

Credence looks startled again, and Albus sees that there is something in Credence’s eyes that seem to brighten. “I’ve never eaten ice cream before,” he says, and then flushes, embarrassed. He says, quickly, “Mr.--Professor Dumbledore, I think I would like a wand. Even though I have never had lessons or even performed magic properly. Even in my state right now with the--”

Credence does not say _Obscurus_ , but the specter of the word hangs in the room, dark and foreboding. Albus musters a smile, and he says, “It is never too late to learn magic. I believe practicing could even help you in regard to the matter of control.”

“Control,” Credence repeats. His head is bowed, inclined to the table. His hair is growing out, slightly falling across his forehead. “It is strange to read about magic. To know that this is what I truly have. It is nothing like my ma said. No mention of making pacts with the devil, or sacrificing children, or stealing non-magical people’s good fortune.”

“Muggles often have misconceptions and prejudices of subjects they do not understand,” Albus says. He thinks, fiercely, of Ariana returning home, crying, changed beyond belief, and unlike his younger self who eventually resolved to rule over Muggles for the greater good, he now feels a sharp, hopeful wish for a better and kinder world. “I am glad that you are here now, reading about magic. Magic is a wondrous thing: it can heal, it can transform, it can create, and it can liberate. Your upbringing--you did not deserve any of that, my boy.”

Credence raises his eyes to meet Albus’ gaze. There is a frozen expression on his face. His mouth is turned downward. “You--” he starts, and then stops.

“Credence?”

“You remind me of him,” Credence says. “I don’t know why I’ve been thinking that ever since I met you. I’m sorry, sir; I shouldn’t have…”

Albus closes his eyes, then opens them. He feels weary, tired, and he knows for certain that his avoidance of this boy is for exactly this reason.

“I knew him, for a time,” Albus says, distantly. “When we were both young men. He was sixteen and I was eighteen.”

“Gellert Grindelwald.” Credence says the name like it’s entirely foreign to him, and Albus remembers, of course it is, because Gellert had been under a Transfiguration spell the whole time Credence knew him.

“I have not spoken to him in twenty-seven years,” Albus says. It is a reassurance. He does not want Credence to be afraid or wary of him, but perhaps it is too late for that.

He does not know why he told Credence the truth, but he thinks the boy deserves to know something more. Gellert had been _cruel_ to Credence in a cold and heartless way that Albus does not want to dwell upon. Newt had written to Albus about how Gellert had thought Credence a Squib, not recognizing him as the Obscurial.

“Is that why Mr. Scamander left me here with you?” Credence asks. “Because you knew…?”

“Newt is not aware,” Albus says. “I am--rather private about my past. No, he left you in my care because of my knowledge of Obscurials. I’ve published articles about the topic before, and I wrote to him while he was in Sudan.”

“He told me about that Sudanese girl,” Credence says. “He can’t do with me what he did with her, because it didn’t keep her alive.”

“Indeed. I will find something, Credence. The Obscurus is a parasite and it must be halted.” Albus pauses, and he has a revelation.

The Obscurus works as a parasite. There is an entire branch of magic that is parasitic in nature, relying on sacrifices of the soul or sanity or health. This type of magic can push back, potentially feed on the Obscurus’ darkness, and bind it to a degree.

The book for this is not even in the restricted section in the Hogwarts library. It is a book that Albus kept from his boyhood--one of the ones that Gellert left behind?--and Albus turns, says a hurried farewell to Credence, and he darts off to his office.

* * *

The spell is dangerous.

_Finsternismordre._

Albus has not practiced the Dark Arts since he was eighteen. Even for his experiments with Gellert, he had been reluctant to delve deeply into dark magic. Dark magic entails consequence, and a single spell means opening yourself to personal risk.

Newt would not approve. Albus knows that he does not, either--he does not want to put this boy in even more danger, exposing him to dark magic like this.

There are too many possibilities. _Finsternismordre_ is a solution, but it is not _the_ solution because of how easily it can kill Credence.

Struggling, Albus turns his mind to figuring out alternatives. Perhaps there is a way to mimic _Finsternismordre_ without having to resort to dark magic. Perhaps a substitute spell that mimics the effect? A curse that borders on being dark but is grey in nature?

Albus spends the night restless, pondering, until he falls asleep with his head on the sheaves of parchment on his desk.

* * *

He awakens in the morning. He opens his eyes, bleary, brushing back the bothersome strands of his hair that has fallen across his face, a long curtain of auburn.

Credence is standing in front of his desk, eyes wide at the sight of Albus slumbering.

“Ah,” Albus says, adjusting his askew spectacles. “I apologize. I was preoccupied last night.”

“Thank you for doing this for me,” Credence says, his voice quiet. “I had thought you would give up, you and Mr. Scamander.”

Albus nods. He is still waking up, and here, in the morning light, he finds himself studying Credence: the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the way his growing out hair curls at the ends, the tight expressiveness of his dark eyes. Credence walks with a slouch, but there is a hidden strength underneath the surface.

How could Gellert have missed this?

Albus does not know what prompts him to act, right now. Maybe it is because the impression of last night’s dream still lingers with him: Gellert, running his fingers through Albus’ long red hair.

He stands, leans forward to reach out, his thumb brushing the pale soft skin of Credence’s chin. And Credence is immediately responsive, tipping his head forward at the contact, eyelids fluttering, as if he is opening himself like a flower bud to sunlight.

As if burned, Albus withdraws his hand. Gellert must have--Merlin, of course he did--

_I am not like him. I will not--_

He whispers, hoarse, “Credence, my boy.”

“Say that again,” Credence says, and his eyes are closed. “He called me that. He--he called me that.”

Albus is utterly still. “No,” he says, “I will not ruin you like he did. You are young and you are afflicted by the Obscurus and the burdens you had to bear since you were a child. Do not ask me for something I cannot give you.”

Silence. Then:

“What was he like?” Credence says. “What was he like when you knew him when he was sixteen years old?”

And Albus finds that he cannot lie to this boy once again. “He was beautiful,” he says quietly. “He was passionate, ambitious, and brilliant. He came into my life for a single summer, and we believed we could take over the world together. It was very foolish and selfish of me.”

“Did he love you?”

“Did he love you?” Albus says. This is cowardice again, a cool deflection. Albus stares unblinking at this boy who Gellert used, manipulated, and inadvertently drove to a rampage, and he is not surprised when Credence seems to stand straight for one of the few times in his life, meeting Albus’ gaze unflinchingly.

“There is something I want to show you,” Credence says, finally.

* * *

Credence leads him to the Herbology greenhouses on the grounds. They are currently empty.

Professor Sorrel must be at breakfast in the Great Hall with the other remaining staff and students. In lieu of breakfast, before he and Credence had left the castle, Albus had called upon a house elf for a plate of pastries.

Snow had fallen during the night, but it had stopped sometime in the morning. The grounds around Hogwarts are covered in glistening white: the Great Lake frozen over, icicles hanging from the branches of dead trees, a thin layer of snow coating everywhere.

Credence stops in front of Greenhouse Three. Credence has his hands shoved in his robe pockets, his breath making mist in the air. It is much considerably warmer once they are inside.

“This area is called Flora Faction,” Albus tells Credence, eyes sweeping the purple bouncing bulbs that are jittering in place. He has been here many times, not only when he used to be a student, but whenever there are ingredients he needs for a potions or alchemy experiment.

Credence inclines his head. “I thought it was something like that. There was a flower I was searching for--I found it in one of the books from the library. I recognized it.”

Credence walks toward a cluster of red flowers. The cluster is twined against the wall of the greenhouse, climbing and expanding.

The flowers are encapsulated within a shield charm, Albus notes. He knows these flowers: _periculids_. They look like they’re on fire, or perhaps fireflies are leaping from their ruffled petals. Periculids are known for intermittently emitting red sparks, whispering as they do so.

“He showed me one,” Credence says, reaching out a hand to touch the transparent barrier. “We were having dinner at a diner, and he took a wilting carnation out of the vase on our table. He transformed--Transfigured--it into a periculid.”

Albus can picture Credence, scared and lonely, lighting up at the false gestures of kindness. Utterly lured by the promise of magic and freedom. Gellert has always had a magnetic intensity about him.

This boy was _wooed_ , Albus thinks. Credence had been charmed and courted and swayed.

There is a soft, rose-blush tint dusting Credence’s cheeks, and a wistfulness in his eyes. His pale hand presses against the transparent barrier, grasping for the periculids; he would certainly pluck one off the vine, even if it would scar his palm.

Albus feels a tightness in his chest. It leaves him breathless.

“I saw what you were reading, Professor,” Credence says, finally turning to look up. “The papers on your desk. You know how to stabilize the Obscurus. I need you to do it for me.”

Before Albus can protest, Credence presses on. “I need to keep it under control. I don’t have much time left.”

“I will not be responsible for your death,” Albus says. “This is dark magic, Credence.”

“It frightens me,” Credence says, lowly, and he reaches for Albus’ hand. Credence’s hand is warm, but he is trembling, too. His fingers squeeze Albus’ and Albus wants to close his eyes at the gentle, urgent pressure of the touch. “Heal me. Please.”

And Albus...Albus cannot deny the boy this.

“Tonight,” Albus says. “I require time to prepare the spell.”

* * *

Credence is sitting on Albus’ bed with his robes shucked off, his chest bare and exposed. He has a sleek, lithe form, his body shaped in sharp and narrow lines.

Albus is seated beside him on the bed, concentrating, remembering his research.

The room is in near darkness. A low fire crackles in the fireplace, but that is the only light they have; the curtain is drawn across the window, shutting out any moonlight.

“The spell will mark you,” Albus says, the tip of his wand hovering over Credence’s left forearm. “It will be very painful. You must be certain--”

“I’m sure,” Credence says. “I am not unused to pain, sir.”

Albus offers Credence a quiet, sad smile, and he brushes back a lock of black hair on Credence’s forehead with his other hand. He keeps that hand cradling Credence’s cheek, a steadying point of focus.

“The marking needs to take a form or shape that you choose,” Albus says. “I will draw it against your arms, but the magic requires you to envision it.”

He says, in gentle jest, “I recommend an animal, my boy. A lion like my Gryffindor house, or perhaps a phoenix or hippogriff. Or any of Newt Scamander’s creatures, perhaps?”

Credence laughs. The movement of his jaw shifts underneath Albus’ hand, a pleasant jolt against his skin. “Like a niffler or bowtruckle tattoo? I bet he’d want one for himself.”

“He certainly would. We shall avoid creatures, then, to not incite jealousy on his part,” Albus says. “What form do you want?”

“A--a periculid.”

Ah. Albus lets out a breath. “If that is your wish.”

Albus begins. He sets his wand against Credence’s left forearm and he whispers, whispers dark magic, feeling that old, familiar ebb of ugly enchantment eke from his soul and his bones.

A thin line of black rises from the tip of Albus’ wand, and then it twists underneath the surface of Credence’s skin--and Credence lets out a cry as it digs into his arm, writhing and alive. His breath is quickening, his eyes flickering white.

“It feels,” Credence says, gasping, “like I’m being torn open.”

Albus cannot halt the magic. He can only urge it forward, whispering dark magic, thinking of the periculids that had captivated Credence. His hand cradling Credence’s cheek drops; he curls it into a fist and focuses, focuses.

The lines of black continue to swirl. They dart a path across Credence’s shoulders--Credence makes a muffled, choked noise--and they dig into Credence’s other arm. They are branching out, manifesting, and then they burst into the color red.

Magically inked periculid petals unfurl. Ruffled layers of red petals spark and pulse. And all the while, Credence’s face is contorted with pain while the magic carves itself into his skin, and he is obviously trying--so desperately--not to sob.

Albus must let the magic take its course. He lowers his wand and tucks it away in his robes. He puts his hand on Credence’s face again, stroking his cheek lightly.

“My brave boy,” Albus murmurs, pressing a kiss against Credence’s temples. The use of dark magic has left Albus light-headed - drunk on a sensation of euphoria - and he kisses Credence on the mouth once--then again--then again--then again--swallowing Credence’s muted cries. His auburn beard brushes against the smooth skin around Credence’s mouth, making friction.

Credence stammers, “Mr.--Mr. Graves,” in a shaking voice, and like that moment back in Albus’ office, he is immediately receptive and open. Kissing back, tongue tentatively dragging against Albus’ mouth and _oh--_

 _I am taking what Gellert has taken_ , Albus thinks, his thoughts disorganized and incoherent. _I wonder if I can taste him on this boy--this boy--_

“Take me in your mouth,” Credence says, when they pull away from each other. His eyes are half-lidded from the still ongoing pain. “ _Please._ ”

Albus draws aside the bed sheets. He reaches for Credence’s erection, hand curling forward. It is warm and firm, and he touches the head of it with a brush of his thumb. Credence quivers, and Albus notices still--still--Credence is trying not to cry.

“You can cry,” he says, softly. “I know that it hurts.” He knows that this isn’t just about the spell.

“He betrayed me,” Credence whispers. “He betrayed me and I miss him.”

“I know, my boy,” Albus says. “I--I know.”

He inclines his body downward in the bed, settling his hands against Credence’s hips, his head between Credence’s legs. He is suddenly struck by doubt, coming to himself--he shouldn’t be doing this. Credence is young and Gellert hurt him--

“Take me,” Credence urges, and he reaches down, tugs Albus’ hair, drawing him closer. Albus makes a startled sound at the pull, and opening his mouth, his lips close around the tip of Credence’s cock.

“More,” Credence murmurs. “Harder.”

Albus hollows out his cheeks and takes in a breath. He sucks, throat bobbing with effort, reveling in the softness and warmness of Credence’s cock, his beard prickling against Credence’s hips.

When he looks up at Credence’s face, the boy is...the boy is lovely. His head is tipped back and he is panting. He is crying--has been crying--the tears wet on his cheeks. The newly inked tattoos on his forearms have stopped moving, only glowing a luminescent red.

Albus bends down to kiss, and suck, and lick. He enjoys the sensation of how Credence’s cock swells in his mouth, bringing him to the brink, then pulling back, and eliciting needy whimpers.

“Make me--make me-- _please_ \--” Credence says, and Albus hums an agreement, understanding what Credence wants. He reaches with his hand--strokes, coaxes--and Credence comes into his fingers, sticky and wet and white. They both lay there on the bed, panting. And abruptly mortified, realizing exactly what he has done, Albus wills for his own erection to die away--this should not have happened--

“Thank you,” Credence says, softly. In the dim firelight, Albus notices that Credence has that light rose-red blush on his cheeks--that same expression from earlier--and Albus cannot help but stare, enraptured.

“Credence,” Albus says, and he positions himself to lay down beside him on bed, curling a hand around Credence’s wrist. He does not know what else to say.

They fall asleep like that, their hands joined.

* * *

When Albus wakes, he finds Credence standing by the window with the white bed sheet draped around his naked body. There is an owl perched on the windowsill, and Credence has a letter in hand.

The letter flashes gold when Credence opens it, and it rains periculids.

The flowers burst from the sheaf of parchment, red blossoms soaring upward and then falling. Periculids nestle in Credence’s hair and the bedsheet pooled around his body; he is covered in them, buried in them.

Scarlet sparks light from the petals. In response, the Obscurus forms a protective mist, wisps of shadow shielding Credence from harm. The tattoos on Credence’s arms are now an angry, burning red, carefully tamping down the Obscurus’ strength.

Albus, heart in his throat, walks to Credence’s side, by the window highlighted by the morning sun. He brushes the periculids from Credence’s hair, soft, uncaring how they sting his fingers, and he reads the letter and recognizes familiar, familiar handwriting.

There is only one word written on the parchment.

_Mine._


End file.
